The Eyes of a Young Girl
by MoutItoniMghtI
Summary: These are forgotten memories; they are April's story. A story of love. Of addiction. Of another empty life. "His touch was only like a flickering candle when a burning fire was just a needle prick away. I could only remember when his touch was a fire."
1. Chapter 1

Ok, so, no, I don't own RENT, we must thanks a wondrous Jonathan Larson for that. I do not, unfortunately, own Roger. I do not own April. I don't own emotion, I rent ;). Um. wow. Rentheads at their finest. Well, I hope you enjoy this story, there will be more chapters. I'd love reviews and such! Enjoy...

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"Please don't," he begged. He pleaded with his every power. The helplessness was dripping from his hypocritical words. He pleaded hard, but his words were soft.

I looked up through my fallen bangs and was pierced by his blue eyes. "I have to."

"No, you don't. You – we – have to stop. Look." He pulled his leather sleeve up and all I saw were the tracks. The marks of the needle. They were etched into his arm like a map to hell. They traced lines of addiction and self pity. Such an arm can't tell me to stop when it's living it every moment. These scars framed greed. They traced the greed. They led to an unnatural high. To an escape that I was dying to take.

I was already ready; the needle was full, my arm was cut off by the band on my bicep. The sight of the blue vein was bleeding through my skin. My fist was clenched. My greed was hungry. I needed my escape.

"You don't need this," he said – like he read my mind – trying to rip the needle from my hand. His efforts were in vain. In every sense of the word; he failed in his endeavors, my greed too strong, and he was doing it for himself. He couldn't stand me high when he wasn't and I saw in his eyes, the way he looked at the needle, he needed this too. Hell, I think when he looked at me – all hungry, all self-destructing, all self-pitying, all addicted – that he was just gazing frightfully into a mirror. A mirror that could not lie. The truth is why we live a lie. We guard ourselves from the truth. The truth that we all created. We live in fear of our own creations. We slowly destroy ourselves with everything we do.

"You want this," I whispered angrily as he grabbed the needle from my hand when his sorrowed eyes distracted me.

"That doesn't make it better," he retorted.

"What? Your desire?"

"Yes! What? No; you doing it." I caught him in his own trap. He cried from behind the bars. Those God damned bars of truth. "Please, don't do this."

"It's too late to stop." I shook my head softly and picked at the hem of my shirt, pulling at frayed strings.

"No, it's not." He pulled my hands into his, setting the needle by me. His touch was only like a flickering candle when a burning fire was just a needle prick away. I could only remember when his touch was a fire.

"Yes, it is. You know it is." I yanked one hand from his and he grabbed the needle, but that wasn't my target, not yet. I reached into the pocket on the chest of his jacket. My fingers pinched the packet and slid it ever so slowly out. His face was utter surprise. I shook the small thing in front of his face. "And why the fuck are you telling me to stop?"

"Don't do this."

"You goddamn hypocrite." I sneered, clenching the powder in my fist.

"April, it's not mine, it's yours." My white knuckles went to neutral as I released my fist. I looked into my hand and gazed at it.

"You took my smack? For yourself?"

"No, to throw it away; this is done." He rose from his knees, the needle still in his hand. He towered over me where I sat on the steps. I looked up at him, feeling betrayed.

"It's too late!" I barked, reminding him. He shook his head and stumbled angrily in a circle before stepping to me again. He gazed with pleading anger into my eyes.

"No, we can stop. We _have_ to stop."

"There are a lot of things we _have _to do, like pay rent. And we don't do that too often, do we?" I looked back into his eyes, challenging him.

"I'm so sorry," he muttered.

"What?"

"I'm sorry I did this to you. I introduced you to the drug. I was the one who instituted it all." His eyes softened and went distant as though he were trying to steal back a forgotten memory.

"Don't guilt trip me," I demanded, forcing back any nagging tears with anger.

"You're so fucking insane when you feel the need to shoot up " he cried, throwing his hands up in fury. "I'm apologizing out of sincerity."

"Well, don't," I roared. He shook his head and laughed half-heartedly to himself. I glared up, anger bubbling inside of me as my eyes flew to the needle he clenched. I needed it. I wanted to get away for even just a little. Away from the truth.

"This is hopeless," he stammered as he pivoted around and paced back and forth. He was distraught. He was straddling a blurry boundary between addiction and moral. I was far too past the thin line and it didn't look like I was coming back. I was hungering to get even further away.

"Do you love me?" he asked suddenly. I looked up to his eyes in curiosity. The hunger had already possessed me past the point of no return.

"No."

"You don't mean that, April."

"Then what's your problem?" I whimpered, the tears coming back. One slid down my cheek and I hurriedly wiped it, hating my weaknesses.

"Why can't you stop? For me?" he begged, his eyes a pit of fire that now tried to simply warm.

"Because, I couldn't stop even for myself," I yelled suddenly. I had caught sight of the needle again.

"You need help," he bellowed back, and that fire went ablaze again.

"No shit. Just give me the fucking needle."

He whispered his words of plead; "Please, April, try to stop."

"When will you stop, Roger?" I hissed back. My words were all regret. Everything I did was something for me to regret later, something to make me do even more regretful things.

"Shut up, at least I'm trying." he growled in return. How did his words of love turn to words of hate? Right; me. I was his regret. He'd never say it because he loved me too much, but somewhere deep down he had a screaming hate for me.

"As long as I'm doing it you won't stop."

"God, you're crazy. Why do you say things you don't mean?" he questioned. There was the hate. I lusted for the needle so maybe he would love me when the anger subsided, but it kept me in his prison cell. Something he kept locked in because if he lost it he would fall to pieces, but it slowly ripped him apart. I was ripping him apart. I was ripping me apart.

"Just give me the needle," I requested again, a little softer and little more needing it to cover up my raw emotions.

"What can I do to get through to you?" he asked, shaking his head at me.

"Nothing."

"Please try!" he lost it. His top was blown. I finally did it.

"It's the only thing keeping me sane," I told him, "Don't deny the fact that you know that all too well."

"It's a temporary suicide." he countered. "And I'm sick of dying and watching you fade away."

"Please, let me have it," I groaned, there was no turning back. He was trying to pull a moth from a light. I knew what I was doing, but I needed it too badly.

"You have to stop." He could say whatever he wanted; it wasn't going to bring me back. Like I said, not even I could bring me back.

"When _you_ completely stop, then we'll talk," was my only snide.

"You know what? Whatever, it's not worth it. I've lost you," he told me. His eyes were fallen from a lost battle. I had won. No, I hadn't won. Addiction won. Insanity won. He shoved the needle into my hand; outwardly I looked just as exhausted as him, but inside a possessive greed grinned. "Throw your life away."

"Don't be like this. You know exactly what you'll be awake, in the middle of the night, yearning for. And I'll be there, but that won't be enough for you then." I was only voicing my darkest thoughts. Maybe my fears. I wanted him, but this me was pushing him away. Just another regret.

"Whatever, April," he said. He turned around, ready to walk away, and as he sulked away his surrendered voice whisper, "Happy Anniversary."

Tears trickled down my cheeks and I didn't bother to wipe them. I hurled the powder packet across the alley way and it smacked into the side of a trashcan, sliding down. I didn't do anything right. I felt like I was being slowly sucked into a black hole. A hole that I created. Was I really that far gone?

I slipped the needle into my skin; I no longer flinched at its pinch. I looked down the alley, watched him shove his hands into his pocket as he sauntered away. I turned away from the sight and took a deep breath, pushing my chosen poison into my hungry body. I made my escape and it wasn't like fleeing Alcatraz; it took no work. All I had to do was slowly throw my life away. And for some unknown reason that was enough for me.

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So, there that was. Chapter one. I hope you liked it and continue to read the story, it will be a short one though. Thanks so much. Love, Aly :)


	2. Chapter 2

I wish I could upload chapters more often! School just makes everything difficult. Anyways, hope you enjoy. Longer chapters should come soon. Oh, and no, I still do not own RENT. Read, review, all that fun stuff :D

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The next morning was crisp. Just the cliché feel after the rain that poured down on me in the alley as I soaked up that poison. The light stretched its long legs after the finally ended night and formed honey shades and silky shadows on the walls. I don't know, maybe I was still high. The window had become unlatched again and the nearly autumn breeze flowed in and brushed past my skin. I had been lying awake since dawn broke, but when I had first opened up my eyes everything was in that all too familiar fuzz and grog. I was now able to take in my surroundings. Roger was in a heap next to me, still asleep, still angry. His body was covered in a fine layer of sweat but the hairs on his arms were raised and goose bumps scaled across skin. He had been stirring most of the night. The sheets were in crumbled bunches and twisted in random manners. His fingers were running at speed of their own mind; picking at the sheets, picking at the pillow, picking at the bare mattress. Across the room guitar picks and shredded sheet music were splayed out in an angry mess; another failed attempt at song writing.

This was withdrawal. Or it was just Roger, who knows. After a lousy trip I had trudged into the loft and found him strumming away at the aging and breaking Fender. I had stood there in a trance, not of him, it was the high, but I just stood there staring. He hadn't noticed at first and I just watched as he attempted to strum out chords and pick out riffs on the old strings. I knew he was saving them, but I grabbed the new strings from his case. He looked up at me, bewildered, as I slipped around him to get to the case. I tossed the pack of strings in his lap.

"I'm saving those," he reminded me. He tried to be nice about it, but the anger roared underneath his simple words.

"Do it, your low E will thank me," I mumbled as the said string snapped and pulled from the bridge and coiled back to the head of the guitar. He grumbled his angry words and I drifted in a zombie state to the bed.

I fell into it and absentmindedly listened to his shaky movements of removing the old strings and replacing them with the new ones. And then it was the sounds of the new strings streaming in as he tried different chord progressions, varying melodic riffs, and random finger picking. The last sound I remembered was his angry huff and the echoes of his guitar being slammed to the table when no inspiration came to him.

Mark had been with Maureen, thank God. We drive him fucking insane.

I had been awake when Roger was at his worst. His white-knuckled fist had slammed on the headboard and shook the whole bed, its reverb echoing in the empty room. I had awoken; surprised he was even in the same bed as me. Damn, now that I was myself, did I feel a mix of emotions from what had happened in the alley. Anger? A bit, it was a flow into my fingers, a feeling telling them to slam on something. Sadness? Sure, well no, maybe not so much. It was more an implied sadness, not a felt sadness. Disappointment? Regret? Yes. Another one of those hated familiar feelings. The time before I shoot up I remember less than I remember the high itself. I take on a new persona, become a greedy, life destroying monster. My family was long gone, couldn't live in the ruins I made. It never calmed after the storm and they were tired of standing in the acid-rain pouring from their daughter's clouds onto their crumbled confidence. Whatever friends I did have were the same as me. And then there was Roger. Still here, never leaving. Dreaming of leaving? I'm sure, but to him a world without me was a bigger nightmare than staying and dealing with me. We were nearly the same person, that's why we could really hate each other. But we needed one another. Besides, we were in love. I guess that's what love is, it's the only thing I've known as love. And I keep throwing it away. He hates me, but can't help loving me. We were different before the heroin. That's how we grew to love, with an addiction-less life. And now the things keeping us together were the fear of not having the other and the dreams of the past; the hope that we would go back to it. That and our self-loathing; we'd go crazy condemning ourselves if we didn't have each other to scrutinize. We'd have cracked and blackened mirrors instead of the open heavy air that hangs around our synonymous beings. But maybe they were the same anyway.

But, looking at him then as he writhed in pain, next to me where he should've hated to be, I felt sorry. I remembered then what I had told him; _'You know exactly what you'll be awake, in the middle of the night, yearning for. And I'll be there, but that won't be enough for you then.' _Wait, I had told him that? Shit, you've done it again April; you'll never stop doing it, will you?

I sat up as the headboard shook again with his fist's power. A tear trickled down my cheek and I didn't even notice; his cry was worse than my guilt.

"Roger," I whispered as I crawled out of the bed and shuffled to his side, kneeling down to capture this sad picture of pain. His only reply was a groan. What I had hoped to accomplish, I'm not so sure. Just let him know I was there, I guess, let him know I _did _want to be there, whatever that meant. I reached an unsteady hand to his clenched one, the response was a tighter grip and then a release so that his fingers could wrap around mine. "It's not enough," I muttered to myself, another wave of guilt crashing into me. Then I saw his other hand, a handle on a needle. It was full, the only antidote to its own pain. I wasn't going to take it from him, wasn't going to tell him not to. I was gazing onto a scene of agony, how could I tell him not to take the road I would take? He was in the battlefield of right and wrong. He was trying to fight the pain and the fix. Sharp breaths led to a long inhale. He opened his eyes, staring at me, now aware that I was there. He looked at me in a way I'd never seen his eyes think before. He was searching my face, looking for a question and knowing the answer. His blue eyes were tearing into mine and I saw my reflection in them. More tears had fallen on my face, still all I could see were the tears his eyes held in.

"You were right," he cried, pulling me to my feet as he sat up. "You were right," he repeated these words for minutes, quite a few times taking the needle to his skin and pulling it back. Maybe I had guessed right, knew what was going to happen, but I wasn't correct in my thinking. It was all wrong. Everything that was right for us was wrong to the rest of the world.

"No," I told him with a forceful whisper. He peered up at me from his battling gaze of the needle. What was in his eyes? He was questioning me, but he was coming to realize what I was saying. Maybe now was the time to make things correct again, I thought, move from a forced right to a natural one.

"We'll stop," I said, low enough I barely even heard it. I knew what I was saying but I didn't comprehend it; didn't take in my hasty promise. I didn't even know if I could keep it, but I had to bring Roger back to me, had to bring myself back to life.

"You'll stop?" he asked, balancing the needle in his hand.

"Yes, we'll stop," I answered. This was my way of apologizing I guess. I didn't have the strength to look him in the eye and say the words 'I'm sorry,' I was too weak. I couldn't face the fact that I had done wrong, couldn't be proud enough to admit to him that I was out of line, out of mind. I had a different pride, a fake one, which let me believe I was right in every action. I found other ways to let him know, intentional or not. I wasn't sure if he knew these things as apologies, but this time I think he was coming to realize my messed up ways. If only I could figure out all of his.

He nodded his head slowly, accepting my surrender. Together, we guided the needle from his hand to the bedside table and he dropped it on the surface. He nodded again and as I looked into his eyes, as more pain shot through him, I saw his orbs dart to the dropped needle and then, with an inner struggle, look back at me. I nodded too, and found my way back into the bed, taking his hand again and beginning to fall asleep to his silent murmurs. Before I drifted away, a few words escaped my mouth; "One year." I wasn't going to say happy anniversary. What was happy about it? I had already ruined it.

Our promise was harder for him right now, he had gone without the drug and I still had some in me. And, in my messed up ways, I tried my hardest to make sure this unnatural euphoria stayed with me as long as it could before I became a slave to withdrawal.

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Alrighty, hope you enjoyed it! and hopefully a new chapter will come soon! :)


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